Under my Umbrella
by TheQuartermasterofTea
Summary: The wedding is over and Sherlock is still in love with John, the man he died for; the man he would kill for. He needs someone to love him and so he goes to the only other person he knows FOR CERTAIN can care for a ridiculous man like him. Mylock Holmescest. WARNING: incest!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N- This story contains an incest pairing so if you aren't into that, please don't read!**

**-Z. Emrys**

The wedding was beautiful, and the couple glowed with love and affection. John and Mary stared into each other's eyes, unaware of how damaging such a gaze could be to those who were stuck behind a metaphorical glass wall. Sherlock could hear the waltz he had composed in his head like a bad record on repeat. His fingers followed the melody in his mind, playing a violin of air, sliding them around on four make believe strings. It was a shameful way to think; to think he was jealous of Mary and wished he could be in her place. He wished Mary Morstan had never met John, and that John had kept mourning him until he returned. Selfishly, he wanted John to forget all about his new wife and turn those loving eyes onto Sherlock. He did like Mary, but a small part of him still hated her with the deepest loathing passion possible within one person.

The flat was dark and he nursed a pilfered bottle of whiskey, cheap and not well aged. The liquid went down like fire, and the pain in his throat felt good. It warmed his body from the inside out and clouded his mind. He had changed from the stupid suit and into a pair of black jeans and a sloppy blue button up that was most likely too big for him. Without thinking, he stood and slipped into his long Belstaff coat, still holding onto the glass bottle. The stairs gave him no incident and he hailed a cab, the bright headlights making him squint in pain.

"Where to mate?" The cabbie asked in the worst fake tone of voice. Sherlock rolled his eyes and told him the address, then took a long deep swig of the murky amber liquid. The city passed by in a whir that made Sherlock's encumbered head spin in circles. Finally the cab rolled into the rural street filled with rich looking townhouses, all identical to the one right next to it. He got out of the cab and tossed a few notes, probably too many but he couldn't find the room to care. He observed the black house numbers on the post before each door, looking for the one most familiar to him. Tripping on the stoop, he made it up to the tall dark door with a gold knocker and laid his cheek to the cool wood. He banged lazily at the door, the cold sweat on his palm sticking to the lacquered paint. A whoosh of air and a stumble through the door brought him through to his salvation.

Mycroft stood agape at his little brother, a frightful mess in the dim lighting coming from the fire. Sherlock had made his way into the main foyer, leaning against the cream colored wall that faced the entranceway to the door. A bottle was clutched in one fist, completely empty, and his lower lash line was puffy and red, agitated by tears tracking his cheeks. He straightened the front of his opened waistcoat, hanging by his sides in a casual way.

"Sherlock to what do I owe the pleasure?" Mycroft said calmly, though on the inside he was anything but calm.

"You know damn fucking well why I'm here!" Sherlock announced in a fit of anger. The drink really did destroy his usually impeccable vocabulary.

"Use more intelligible words, Sherlock. I know you can," Mycroft responded, keeping up the same tone of the previous question. Damn his coldness, he thought. Mycroft just wasn't good with emotions, and now was one of the few times he wished it could come easier. He wanted to say everything his mind could not. _Are you hurt? What happened? I love you. _

This version of Sherlock, Mycroft had decided, was the most terrifying. Sherlock was no angry drunk, heavens no. When high or otherwise inebriated, Sherlock was self-destructive, self-loathing, and filled with uncontrollable sadness.

"John and Mary. They're married now, together forever. They don't need me anymore. They left me alone. Alone just like the good old days right Mycroft? Isn't that what I wanted? To be alone forever? Huh?! Alone!" Sherlock shouted hysterically, throwing the bottle at the door to punctuate the last point. The glass shattered into a million pieces, littering the wood floor. His back slid down the wall, and he slumped down in defeat, tiny tears pouring onto his cheeks. Mycroft held his hand to his mouth, appalled at Dr. Watson, though the doctor had no reason to be blamed for doing such a normal thing as moving on with his life. It wasn't John's fault that he fell in love, but Mycroft felt spiteful anyway; spiteful at anyone that caused the only person he cared about to hurt so much. Carefully, he approached the younger on the floor and knelt down to his knees in front of him, unsure of what to do.

"Oh Sherlock," Mycroft whispered, damning the consequences and pulled his beautiful baby brother into his lap. Sherlock choked on a loud sob and buried his gorgeous face into Mycroft's chest. The elder Holmes hummed soothing sounds into Sherlock's inky black curls. His fingers stroked over Sherlock's scalp in an attempt to soothe. They rocked back and forth together there on the floor, the light from the dulling fire illuminating their silhouettes. Skeletal hands twisted themselves into the fabric of his expensive shirt but in that moment, he couldn't care less about the status of his blasted shirt.

"Mycroft," Sherlock muttered, raising his head from his elder brothers' chest and ending up two inches from Mycroft's face. Their breath mingled between them. "Kiss me," he requested. Mycroft's breathing hitched and his blood ran cold. God how he wanted to taste his little brother's perfect cupid's bow lips; he had ALWAYS wanted to. Mycroft had adjusted to the facts of his attraction to his own blood long ago, though he never expected to act on his feelings. Nor had he ever dreamed that his fantasies would turn to reality.

But it was wrong, so utterly wrong. Sherlock was drunk and not in his right mind. It would be close to rape if he took advantage of his brother's temporary lack of common sense. What if Sherlock didn't mean what he said? Everything could be ruined, absolutely everything.

"We can't Sherlock. You know we cannot…" Mycroft said, cupping his brother's cheekbone, just as he dreamed of doing.

"Please My; for me… will you do this for me? I can't be alone tonight. I need you My. I need you to take away all the pain," Sherlock pleaded, staring right into his older brother's eyes, so similar to his own. He was broken and alone and he needed his older brother to put back the pieces again.

"Yes Sherlock," Mycroft whispered soothingly, pulling the younger man off the floor and leading him through the expansive townhouse up to the bedroom. They tumbled together when the door closed and the shades were drawn heavily over the moonlit sky. Chest was pressed to chest, lips touched, and tongues intertwined. Mycroft gently stroked Sherlock's back, displeased at the feeling of bone underneath his thin button up. Sherlock was working on the buttons of Mycroft's shirt, having already succeeded with the waistcoat, the belt, and the first button on his trousers. Mycroft toed out of his shoes and Sherlock followed, pressing harder to Mycroft's lips with his own in triumph at finally getting the shirt off of Mycroft's now bare freckled shoulders. Mycroft shivered at the icy feel of Sherlock's frigid digits stroke his skin. Mycroft tore the blue fabric away from Sherlock's body, now desperate to catch up. His delicate, manicured hands rid Sherlock of his belt and unbuttoned the jeans.

They moved in sync to the bed and Sherlock fell back on top of it, assisting Mycroft to get his jeans and pants off all in one go. Mycroft took a moment to really set his eyes upon the beautiful baby brother that he loved so much.

Sherlock was truly a god in human form, perfect formed raven curls that tumbled over his forehead and shaded his beautiful icy blue eyes. His almond shaped eyes were set perfectly above a carved nose and delicate lips, thin yet fitting. The woman had been right when she said she could cut herself on Sherlock's high cheekbones. His body was much the same, lean and angular and pale as porcelain. His chest had developed quite a bit over the two years after the fall, so he had quite a bit of muscle strung lean and taut. Mycroft's eyes traveled lower, following a trail of dark hair from just under the belly button to a nest of dark curls and his prick jutting out from it, completing the lean and lovely profile. He wasn't wide, but he was very long and half fractious.

"You are so beautiful Sherlock. Such a beautiful baby brother," Mycroft said kindly, letting out some of the warmth in his heart. He tenderly rubbed Sherlock's upper thigh, dusted lightly in hair. Mycroft drew back and shoved down his tan trousers eager to toss away any boundary keeping him from the friction he so desperately needed.

His movements were graceful and he almost felt adequate for half a second, but ended up looking down at his soft body and grimaced. He was highly freckled and unfortunately ginger. He had a decent face, but his eyes were too narrow, his mouth too wide, and his nose too pointy in his opinion. He had a round face that reflected not the least bit of severity Sherlock's had. His body was soft to the touch and dusted with light fluff, very unlike Sherlock who was practically bare of all body hair. He was fat and of average length, the head bulbous and red. Sherlock eyed him up and down slowly, tears forming in his eyes and he smiled through them sadly.

"I never imagined another person could be so perfect. My, you are perfect," Sherlock assured, taking his brother's hand and urging him to crawl on top. Mycroft did as he was told, crawling after Sherlock who was squirming to the lush satin pillows. Mycroft straddled his younger brother's thighs and bent over his body to lick and nip kisses from his heart to his ear and down the other side. Sherlock sighed and groaned, hands reflexively going to Mycroft's hips and squeezing them gently. Mycroft straightened and they rubbed together, causing shivers of pleasure to ravish both men. Mycroft wrapped his hand around them both and stroked lazily, sucking a kiss into Sherlock's neck. Sherlock's hands scrabbled at the silk navy sheets, desperate to seek purchase with something. Mycroft sighed and a sheen of sweat dampened his forehead from exertion, not wanting to ever spend.

He wanted this to go on forever and never be parted from his brother in any context again. Mycroft's other hand snaked to Sherlock's entrance and teased at the clenched muscles. Sherlock whimpered and Mycroft drew both hands away to reach into the bedside table for the bottle of lubricant. He flipped the cap and dumped the cold liquid onto his fingers, not caring when it spilled onto the sheets. Tossing the bottle on the bed behind him, he returned to his brother's entrance, pushing the tip of his forefinger inside and stretching Sherlock thoroughly to prepare him.

In the end, it was Sherlock who came first, shouting out into the darkness, back arching like a bow drawn tight with an arrow. The sight was breathtaking and Mycroft was convinced he would never see anything else in his entire life that would be equally resplendent. Mycroft thrust up roughly and spilled, calling out Sherlock's name like a prayer over and over again.

His strength left his arms and he collapsed onto his side panting and gasping for air. Sherlock turned on his side to face his older brother and curled into his body, shivering and shaking and wailing his grieving lament.

"Shh, Sherlock. My is here. I'm here," Mycroft drew his brother into his arms and held him tight, afraid to let go and see the sorrow that would be written all over the man's face.

"Thank you My," Sherlock whispered, drifting into sleep, utterly exhausted from the mental taxation of the day. Mycroft snuggled close to his brother's body and closed his eyes on the ever glorious moon peeking through the curtains, peering down at the world with her phosphorescent light.


	2. Chapter 2

The curtains were pulled away to let the dim sunrise filter into the bedroom and Mycroft awoke the morning after. The other side of the bed that should have been filled with a warm, slumbering Sherlock was cold and empty. The sheets had been thrown aside and the temperature reflected a departure of no more than four hours ago. The evidence around the room created a moving picture of the events that transpired. Sherlock had left in a hurry, pulling on his clothes as he left the bedroom. He contemplated writing a note but ended up binning it. A cold sweat broke out over Mycroft's body and a brick dropped to the pit of his stomach. Sherlock had run away from him. He was most likely disgusted and ashamed at what they had fashioned together. Mycroft only blamed himself. He had acted on a dangerous obsession; allowed Sherlock to play at his weaknesses.

The politician stood from the bed, stark naked, and pulled a dressing gown from the floor onto his shoulders. He tied the fabric in front of his body to mask his modesty and gazed out the window sadly. Suddenly, his mobile rang on the charger by his bedside and he scrambled to reach it, noticing the time before connecting the call. Great, he thought to himself. He was going to be late today.

"Sir, is everything quite alright?" Anthea's voice called through the mobile, not a hint of emotion or care sat behind it and Mycroft found himself wincing at the coldness and lack of basic human emotion in her voice.

"Fine, Anthea. I apologize for my lack of presence today. However, there is rhyme and reason behind it. You see, I haven't felt well for several days and I've decided to take a day off to heal before returning. Do tell any appointments or meetings I have on my schedule today that I will have their appointments moved to a later date." Mycroft said easily, adding a slightly nasally quality to his voice to indicate symptoms of the common cold. Over the line, Anthea cleared her throat, the only sign she ever gave to being in distress or shock.

"Of course sir; rest easily and call if you should need anything," She stammered.

"Thank you Anthea. Goodbye," Mycroft quipped shortly, cutting off the call and practically tossing the phone to the soft bed behind him.

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock wasn't faring much better. He lay on the couch face up with four patches on the inside of his pale left forearm. He was still wearing Mycroft's shirt from the night previous, the smell of the expensive cologne wafting off of the collar and into Sherlock nose. The scent calmed him; it was musky but sharp. It was strange to come to the realization that Mycroft had wanted him. Mycroft gave every indication that he's thought about them together before. Why hadn't he told Sherlock, the one person he told ALL of his secrets to?

It felt like nothing was making sense. He loved John; he always loved John. That's who he died for. But Mycroft was there to help him die. Mycroft helped him plan the suicide, and assured nothing went wrong. His brother continued to be his only confidant as he traveled around the world to dismantle Moriarty's web. Slowly, it seemed that his brother was taking up the holes in Sherlock's heart.

This wasn't supposed to be happening to him. Mycroft was his older brother; a brother he could barely tolerate. They fought and bickered like children. Somehow, bickering had turned to flirting; could it be qualified as flirting? Sherlock screamed in frustration and threw the thing nearest to his hand, a slipper, at the wall. It hit the wallpaper with a dull thud and fell to the floor gracefully.

He was sick, obviously. Something was wrong with him mentally that made him want a physical relationship with his brother. Maybe that meant Mycroft was mentally ill as well. Perhaps something from their childhood had caused the disease in both of them. Were they not around each other enough to grow up as brothers? He was drunk last night that much he knew. He could blame it on the alcohol and file this whole memory away, put it in a box and bury that box deep in a cell underneath his mind palace. He'd been intoxicated and didn't have a clear grasp on his wild emotions. Mycroft hadn't meant to. Maybe he was forced by Sherlock.

The two spent the entire day in their respective living spaces, trying to logically turn their minds away from what had happened. Mycroft called Mummy just to see how she was doing. Sherlock chain smoked two packs in under four hours. Mycroft cleaned his entire townhouse and told all the cleaning staff to take the day off. Sherlock shot a bow and arrow at the smiley face on the wall. Neither touched his phone or made a motion to contact the other brother.

The entire day passed in absolute silence. It felt strange to be alone now. Both the elder and the younger had gotten very much used to the constant companionship of the aftermath of the fall. In the dark, Sherlock called out a muffled name and Mycroft cried out unabashedly his darkest obsession.


	3. Chapter 3

John and Mary visited Sherlock after they got home from their honeymoon dewy faced and starry eyed, just as any married couple would be. Sherlock found it hateful, but he grinned and bore it because that is what best friends do. John chattered on and on about how warm the water is in Nice and how it hadn't rained a single solitary day. Mary interjected private jokes that she knew Sherlock wasn't privy to, and it felt like a barb to the stomach that twisted its way inside periodically. He smiled widely, showing too much teeth. It felt awkward on his face, making too many wrinkles and dents where they weren't meant to be. John didn't catch onto the mockery he made of happiness, but Mary certainly did.

"Sherlock are you alright?" Mary asked, bringing John's attention back to Sherlock. Damn her, Sherlock thought, she knew exactly what she was doing and it made Sherlock uncomfortable in his own skin. John looked the consulting detective up and down, from his shoes to his face. Sherlock could see behind John's glassy eyes that he cared, but he didn't allow himself to linger in that compassion. It only brought pain.

"I'm wonderful really. Would you like more tea?" Sherlock asked, not really intending to make tea, but to stand up and find an excuse to look busy. He peered out the dusty window curtains at the mysteriously clear sidewalk. Then the black car pulled up beside the building and his brother stepped onto the pavement. Sherlock swallowed hard at the lump in his throat and watched as Mycroft gracefully straightened out his already immaculate suit out and twirl his umbrella on the pavement; a sign of oscillation. Knowing what lay beneath the armor suits, Sherlock went rigid. It'd been three days and two nights. Two nights and three days of dreaming about the man he shouldn't have propositioned in the first place, the only human being that understood him completely. Now he could hear the door open and shut downstairs and footsteps proceeding on the wooden staircase.

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Mycroft sped to Baker Street in a rush; pent up, frustrated, annoyed, and most definitely off his head. He climbed out of the towncar in a hurry and stomped up the wooden staircase, rather like a wayward toddler not getting his way. Sherlock was with John and Mary again.

Mycroft wasn't angry at Sherlock for allowing John into his heart, nor was he upset with Dr. Watson. Perhaps Watson's constant state of ignorance was to blame, or his own jealousy rearing its ugly head.

When he opened the door, it slammed into the wall with enough force to startle both man and wife from their no doubt boorish conversation with the six foot brick wall trying to blend in with the curtains. With the deathly pale gaze of fear and shame on his face, he really was doing quite well.

"Uh, Mycroft, what are you doing here?" John joked, breaking the three second silence following his arrival. Not being the type of man to show emotion, he didn't know what his face looked like when it portrayed menace. However, John Watson's looked of nervous tainted surprise gave the elder Holmes hope.

"That would be none of your concern. Now, I highly suggest you skedaddle. Or, as the rabble say, get lost." Mycroft enunciated clearly, playing with the handle of his umbrella thoughtfully. With inward enjoyment, he watched as both Dr. and Mrs. got up off the couch to depart the room.

"Let's get something straight, I am not afraid of you and frankly your attempt to frighten me is embarrassing at best." John bit out, itching for a fight. Towering over the shorter man, Mycroft looked Watson right in the eye.

"Get. Out." He growled. John, well and truly terrified, left immediately with a curious Mary following behind him. He slammed the door shut on the couple and looked directly at his brother, a myriad of emotions only Mycroft could see flashing across his face: surprise, disgust, love, lust, shame, fear, anger, sentiment.

"Brother dear." Mycroft said gently, smiling at the simple pleasure of being in the same room with his little brother again, after what seemed like ages, centuries even. Sherlock was a drug, which explained his attraction to substance abuse in the first place, and Mycroft needed hit after hit like he thirsted for air. He wanted to foster the possibility of some sort of relationship with Sherlock. Sherlock must have wanted it to, or he wouldn't have propositioned Mycroft at all because, even inebriated, Sherlock still had a semi sound mind and siblings simply didn't request things like that.

"John will be very curious as to why you had to kick him out to talk to me." Sherlock mentioned, casually walking to adjust and fluff the pillows on the couch, erasing the previous visitors. Then he cleared the half empty teacups and cleaned them just to look busy. Mycroft sighed and looked at his feet. Sherlock really could be a child if he so wished to be.

"Yes I'm sure. But, it nothing you can't pull off I'm sure." Mycroft replied, falling in line with the distracting banter.

"Obviously." Sherlock said sharply, a note of finality in his voice.

"Sherlock don't shut me out again." Mycroft pleaded, walking from the doorway of the kitchen to behind where Sherlock was standing at the sink, still rubbing furiously at a china mug. He reached out and rested a hand on Sherlock's side, bringing his own body closer. "Please don't pretend it never happened." Mycroft muttered, barely above a whisper. It was more to himself than to Sherlock.

"Yes well I can't erase it no matter how hard I try. Mycroft, I didn't mean to… do what I did. I hadn't ever imagined that I would indulge myself that much. I'm sorry…." Sherlock stuttered. He never stuttered. Mycroft took the cup out of Sherlock's hands and placed it down very gently at the bottom of the sink, then twirled Sherlock to face him.

"Sherlock please don't say that. You're still frightened of the archaic notion that siblings cannot be physically intimate with each other. We are at no chance of siring any inbred offspring, nor are we religious in any context. We are men of science and rationality and there is no scientific nor rational reason why this is wrong." Mycroft said, trying to ease the obvious distress crawling beneath his brother's skin.

"You made John leave," Sherlock accused, trying to change the subject.

"I'm looking out for you Sherlock. Being around him causes you pain and I hate seeing you like that. It isn't healthy to continue to pine over him as you do. You need to…"

"Need to what? Need to disentangle myself?" Sherlock pushed Mycroft off and walked into the living room.

"Yes. No… Sherlock…" Mycroft was near pleading now, pity and love written into his features plain as day.

"Then why don't you just tell me I told you so and leave me alone!" Sherlock shouted at Mycroft childishly. Mycroft clenched his teeth, hackles rising in the back of his throat.

"I got my I told you so when you crawled into my arms and lay in my bed, screaming my name and not his!" Mycroft screamed back. The air was stiff and silent, the tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. They were at a ceasefire until Sherlock burst forward and kissed Mycroft soundly on the lips. Teeth scraped uncomfortably and blood welled up from someone's bottom lip, but the brothers didn't seem to notice or care. Mycroft's hands went to Sherlock's slim hips, bruising the slender bones in his vice like grip. When they broke apart Sherlock broke down, crying about John and how confused he was. Crying about how much he didn't want to love the army doctor anymore. Mycroft led them into Sherlock's bedroom slowly, planting little kisses on Sherlock's chin, eyelids, cheeks, and nose as they went.

They reached the bedroom and Mycroft slowly stripped Sherlock of his clothing piece by piece, and then removed his own. Red tear tracks stained his hollow cheeks and Mycroft couldn't resist tracing the marks with his fingertips.

"Mycroft I love you." Sherlock whispered, hiding in Mycroft's broad chest.

"I love you too Lock. I just don't want you to be hurt by anyone ever again. I can't watch you in pain. It makes me want to shield you from the world. Oh my darling Lock," he sighs, moving a curl behind Sherlock's ear out of his face. "Too beautiful. Lay with me," he suggests, and Sherlock lays flat on his back while Mycroft clambers on top of him and pins Sherlock's wrists over his head with one hand. "What do I need to do to say how much you mean to me? Tell me what you want," Mycroft said into Sherlock's ear, licking the shell and then traveling to the long neck, kissing and tonguing his way down to collarbone. Sherlock arched his back and whimpered, cock coming to full attention against Mycroft's inner thigh.

"I... Hngh... I want you to... Ah I don't know..." Sherlock moaned, eyes closing tightly. Mycroft took pity and laved his tongue around one dusty pink nipple. He bit down lightly, letting his teeth scrape the skin between them. Sherlock shouted in surprise, bucking up into Mycroft's thigh for friction.

"You want me to worship you? To thrust into you till you think of nothing but me and your release? Do you want me to love you properly?" Mycroft smiled as he said this, pinching the other nipple. Sherlock thrashed and groaned, gripping the older man's biceps.

"Yes god yes... Just please. Please I need you inside me Mycroft please no more teasing!" He pleaded, reaching down to touch himself, get a little relief. Mycroft slapped the hand away and hunkered down until his forehead rested on one pale bony hipbone. Sherlock locked eyes with Mycroft, their gaze not leaving once as Mycroft swallowed Sherlock down to the hilt, pausing for a minute or two to adjust, and then bobbed up and down. Sherlock shrieked and broke the stare to beat his head back onto the mattress, clearly trying not to cum. Mycroft drew back and swirled his tongue on the head once then twice before he released Sherlock with an obscene pop. "Nononononono so close... Sooooooooo close Myc... God..." Sherlock whined, thrusting into the air as if it would help. Mycroft pinned his hips down.

"Shhhh now Lock. Shhhh. I want to make this last. I want to make you feel good. Do you trust me love?" Mycroft asked, surprised he was keeping himself under control. With everything he could ever want right beneath him, it seemed implausible that he would be able to stay steady. Sherlock answered the question with a whimper and nod of the head. Mycroft wasted not another moment in searching the room for supplies.

"Top... Drawer of the nightstand. God Mycroft," Sherlock moaned, once again snaking a hand downwards. Mycroft jumped on top of Sherlock to stop his hand all the while rummaging in the top drawer, pulling out some lube. He uncapped the tube, dribbling a generous amount over his first three fingers. Stroking Sherlock's rib cage and rolling the man over, he backed up on his knees behind Sherlock.

"Up darling. Let me see you." Mycroft said tenderly. Sherlock kept his face on the mattress and raised his arse high in the air, exposing all of his bare skin. Mycroft danced his fingertips along the curvature of the younger man's bare arse, leaving a trail of gooseflesh behind. "I've fantasized about this so many times. You, laid out for me like a present from the heavens," Mycroft said as a finger ghosted around Sherlock's hole. Teasing the skin but never breaching. Sherlock pushed backwards to chase the fingers but they were always right out of reach.

"You know, I wanted to be your very first. I wanted to be the one to deflower you, make you all mine." Mycroft mentioned, finally pushing his forefinger inside slowly. Sherlock shivered and bit down on the sheets, hands scrambling for purchase.

"You... You were. Mycroft you are the first and last." Sherlock moaned. Now Mycroft froze, muddling the words over in his head. He pushed in the second finger to the knuckle and folded his body over top of his brothers, their shoulders aligning, chest to back and hips to arse.

"Am I truly?" He whispered into Sherlock's ear. Sherlock panted yes and Mycroft could have cried. He instead decided to push his third finger inside the ring of muscle with no warning. Sherlock ground down into Mycroft's fingers and his hard prick that rested on Sherlock's backside, leaking profusely from the head.

"I can't wait any longer. I want to be inside you..." Mycroft announced, drawing back and slathering himself. "I need to feel you clenching around me again. I want to fill you up with my come." Mycroft growled, lining himself up and trying not to focus on the delicious sensation. It wouldn't do to come so early. Sherlock breathed in and out desperately, keening for attention.

Mycroft slid inside slowly, taking it inch by wonderful inch. Both brothers moaned in ecstasy. When he was fully seated, he grabbed onto a handful of black curls gently, not wanting to hurt. Sherlock arched back.

"Please, move Mycroft. Please I can't take it." Sherlock pleaded. Mycroft needed no further spurring and pulled back to the head before thrusting back inside hard. Sherlock tightened his grip on the sheets. They found a fast rhythm, bodies grinding and pounding together furiously. The wet sound of flesh slapping flesh filled the room. Mycroft bore down and changed the angle. "GODMYCROFT!" Sherlock shrieked loudly. He found the spot and hit it with every thrust.

"Can you... come... like this?" Mycroft asked breathlessly, still pistoning his hips forward.

"Would you like to try?" Sherlock whispered. Mycroft roughly pulled out and twirled Sherlock onto his back, then reentered and pounded down twice as fast and hard, feeling the beginning of his orgasm in his toes. He bent Sherlock's legs back and hooked them over his shoulders.

"Oh Sherlock, God I need you to come. Show me everything. I want to see you screaming my name. Cum for me Sherlock," Mycroft groaned. Sherlock put his hands onto the headboard and held on, his muscles tightening.

"Yes. Yes I'm gonna cum for you. I'm... I'm gonna... I... Mycroft... MYCROFT! Ahhhaah!" Sherlock screamed and thrashed, painting his and the elder's stomachs with ejaculate. Sherlock clenched down and Mycroft tasted the tip of his own orgasm. He thrust hard, feeling the aftershocks in his own body.

"SHERLOCK!" Mycroft threw his head back and thrust a final time, his cum swelling around him inside his little brother's tight passage. They collapsed together on the bed, exhausted and sweaty. For a while, all was completely silent except for their combined breathing. Sherlock turned to face Mycroft on his side and picked up his brothers hand, leading it behind him.

"What are you doing?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock made him feel his loosened hole, slick with Mycroft's cum.

"You put that there..." Sherlock whispered in complete wonder. Mycroft smiled brightly and drew his fingers back, bringing his fingers back to Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock eagerly licked up the mess and sucked on Mycroft's fingers. Mycroft took his fingers back and plundered Sherlock's mouth, the taste of himself on Sherlock's lips gave him a head rush. When they started to shiver, they brought the blankets up over their bodies and curled close.

"Is there something wrong with us Myc?" Sherlock asked, his head resting on Mycroft's chest. Mycroft looked down and frowned sadly.

"No. There's nothing wrong with us baby. We're just different. You can't help who you fall in love with. You should get some sleep, you need it." Mycroft cuddle Sherlock closer and waited for him to fall asleep before closing his own eyes. He prayed that night when he'd never prayed before. He prayed he wouldn't wake up alone.

When Mycroft awoke, it was to a warm slumbering body beside him and light streaming through the windows of Baker Street. He stared down at his beautiful baby brother who, sensing the movement in the nest, opened his eyes and smiled at his older brother.

"Good morning Lock." Mycroft said, stroking Sherlock's hair.

"Are you the weatherman now?" Sherlock asked, teasing Mycroft as he always had. The politician smiled.

"Are you a smartarse?" He replied, playing along with the childish game. Sherlock quirked and eyebrow and slid under the covers, the silk fabric rolling over his covered body.

"Sherlock what are you doing?" Mycroft asked, but quickly shut up. Someone was licking his hips and kissing his lower stomach… someone who was very eager this morning.

"It is a good morning." Mycroft muttered, hands stroking him from half to full. He sighed happily, the pace was lazy and the mood was relaxing. Warm, wet heat enveloped him now, swallowing down and tonguing the underside. Mycroft watched Sherlock's covered head bob up and down and somehow it turned him on even more. His head rested on the bobbing mass of silk and he reclined into the pillows, moaning appreciation.

"Oh good god Sherlock that mouth." Mycroft whispered, panting. This was going to be over really quickly, but Mycroft could find the room to care when his brother's mouth was around his cock. Sherlock snaked a hand to grip his bollocks and fondled them gently, soothing strokes traveling in white hot flashes straight to his cock head.

"Sherlock I'm going to cum soon," Mycroft warned. That only inflamed Sherlock's passionate pleasuring, as he deep throated Mycroft down to the root and swallowed around him. The final swallow pushed him over and Mycroft came. At first no sound came out, then a great whoosh of breath and a litany of praises. Sherlock swallowed until Mycroft had to push him off, the aftershocks becoming painful. Sherlock emerged from the blankets licking his statistics maw. Mycroft smiled seductively and rolled over.

"Isn't there anything I can do for you little brother?" Mycroft asked teasingly. Sherlock climbed on top of Mycroft's thighs and stroked his own cock. "Watch me." Sherlock said, and then picked up the pace of his hand with a groan. He played his the foreskin, drawing it back then pushing it up again. Precum sprayed everywhere, pooling at the tip of Sherlock's dick. Mycroft watched intently as Sherlock stuck two fingers in his mouth and slicked them up, bringing it behind himself. Mycroft couldn't see, but he figured out what he was doing by the facial expressions. He stroked his prostate and his other hand furiously went up and down the shaft.

"Tell me what you're thinking." Sherlock panted. Mycroft grinned. This was going to be fun.

"I'm thinking you look like a cumslut. You probably touch yourself when you think about me. I think about you when I do. I imagine shutting you up with my cock and face fucking you till you choke. I want to paint your pretty angel face with my cum and show everyone who you belong to." Mycroft growled. Sherlock furiously fisted his cock, his mouth falling open in a wordless cry.

"That's it. Be a good bitch and cum for me all nice and pretty. I want to eat your cum." He encouraged. Sherlock shuddered and cried out. The first fat was landed on Mycroft's upper lip, where he licked it all up like chocolate pudding. Sherlock came over and over again until he fell off of Mycroft's lap onto his side, shaking from intensity.

"A very good morning indeed." Sherlock commented.


End file.
